THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


BY  EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE 

Rimes  to  be  Read.  Miscellaneous 
Verses.  Cloth, 

Chronicles  of  the  Little  Tot.  Poems 
of  Childhood.  Cloth,  $1.50;  Leather, 
$2.00. 

How  Did  You  Die  ?  One  of  Mr. 
Cooke's  most  popular  "impertinent 
Poems."  Printed  on  a  card  in  colors, 
11x14, 

Impertinent  Poems  (Forbes  &  Co.), 
Cloth, 

Dodge  Publishing  Company 
53-55  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


Chronicles  of  the 
Little  Tot 


Edmund  Vance  Cooke 


Illustrations  by 
Clyde  O.  De  Land 

and 
Bessie  Collins  Pease 


New  York 

Dodge  Publishing  Company 
148-156  West  23d  Street 


Copyright,    1905,    by 
Dodge  Publishing  Company 


[Chronicles  of  the  Little  Tot] 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


NOTE. 

Of  the  poems  in  this  collection,  two  have  appeared 
in  "A  Patch  of  Pansies,"  and  two  in  "Rimes  to  be 
Read."  These  are  included  in  present  volume  be 
cause  it  is  thought  desirable  to  keep  the  child-verse 
of  the  writer  grouped  under  the  same  covers  as 
much  as  possible. 

Courtesy  credit  for  the  remaining  verses  is  ex 
tended  to  Lippincott's,  The  Delineator,  Book-Lovers, 
Success,  N.  E.  A.  Syndicate,  Saturday  Evening  Post, 
Youth's  Companion,  Chicago  Times-Herald,  Cleve 
land  Press,  Harper's  Bazar,  Puck,  and  St.  Nicholas, 
which  publications  first  presented  them  in  print. 

E.  V.  C. 


904165 


b 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Cradlers  n 

The   Creepers    25 

The  Cruisers   37 

The   Climbers    55 

In  Remembrance   105 


1- 

(U^= 


b 


The  Cradlers. 


J 

:r-O\ 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

<r 

THROWING  THE  SHOE. 

THE  bride  was  ringed  and  the  bride  was  kissed, 
As  pink  and  proud  as  a  queen  of  tourney; 
The  groom  was  fuming  the  train  was  missed, 
So  forth  they  fared  for  the  wedding  journey. 
Just  then,  with  a  peal  of  parting  laughter, 
The  bridesmaid  clattered  an  old  shoe  after. 

The  old  shoe  lay  in  the  garden  grass, 
While  the  lovers  loved  and  teased  and  pouted, 

And  when  they  returned  it  had  come  to  pass 
A  strange  new  shrub  in  the  yard  had  sprouted! 

Next  spring,  when  the  apple  trees  were  blowing, 

A  beautiful  bloom  on  the  shrub  was  growing. 

The  summer  was  fine  and  the  fall  was  fair; 

The  fruits  of  the  orchard  trees  had  ripened; 
And  the  new  tree  labored  and  bore — a  pair, 

Which  paid  to  the  year  its  little  stipend — 
Twin  little  fruit  of  the  softest  leather 
Hung  and  swung  in  the  autumn  weather. 

Year  after  year  there  was  never  a  lack; 

There  were  ones  and  twos,  there  were  fives  and 

sevens; 
At  first  they  were  white,  then  red,  then  black, 

And  often  the  bridegroom  cried  "Thank  Heavens! 
Blessings  be  on  that  Junetime  laughter 
And  the  seedling  shoe  which  the  maid  threw  after!" 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

" 


THE  INTRUDER. 

HE  is  so  little  to  be  so  bold! 
Why,  he  came  to  the  house   (so  I've  been 

told) 

And  his  very  first  call 
Sufficed  to  install 

The  waif  on  our  premises,  once  for  all. 
Somehow  or  other  the  rogue  got  in 
And  claims  to  be  of  our  kith  and  kin! 

He  is  so  little  to  be  so  loved! 

He  came  unbooted,  ungarbed,  ungloved, 

Naked  and  shameless, 

Beggared  and  blameless, 

And,  for  all  he  could  tell  us,  even  nameless! 

Yet  every  one  in  the  house  bows  down 

As  if  the  mendicant  wore  a  crown. 

He  is  so  little  to  be  so  loud! 

O,  I  own  that  I  should  be  wondrous  proud 

If  I  had  a  tongue, 

All  swiveled  and  swung, 

With  a  double-back-action,  twin-screw  lung, 

Which  brought  me  victual  and  keep  and  care, 

Whenever  I  shook  the  surrounding  air. 

He  is  so  little  to  be  so  sweet! 

You  can  see   that  he  wouldn't  count  much  as  meat. 

(14) 


nlauier 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


Seven  pounds  or  eight 

Isn't  very  much  weight 

To  be  sold  on  the  hoof,  yet  I  dare  state 

Some  extravagant  buyer  might  be  found 

To  offer  as  much  as  a  dime  the  pound. 

He  is  so  little  to  be  so  large! 

Why,  a  train  of  cars  or  a  whale-back  barge 

Couldn't  carry  the  freight 

Of  the  monstrous  weight 

Of  all  of  his  qualities,  good  and  great. 

And  though  one  view  is  as  good  as  another, 

Don't  take  my  word  for  it.    Ask  his  mother! 


^ 

CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE 


THE  MARVEL. 

A  DAINTY  flower  has  formed  to  flesh, 
A  blossom  from  some  fairy  tree 
Which  keeps  its  tender  spirit  fresh 
Upon  the  dews  of  Arcady, 

And  bore  the  sweetest  bud  that  ever  was  or  is-to- 
be. 

The  zephyred  breath  which  wafts  across 

The  lips  which  tempt  the  honey-bee! 
The  tumble  of  the  silken  floss, 

Which  seems  a  halo,  though,  to  me, 
Which  frames  the  softest  light  that  ever  shone  on 
land  or  sea! 

The  pink  which  shames  the  rose's  leaf, 

The  purity  of  neck  and  knee, 
The  crinkle  of  its  little  grief, 

The  dimple  of  its  dainty  glee, 
The  fairest,  sweetest,  purest,  best! — 'tis  all  of  these 
to  me. 


(16) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT, 


OPULENCE. 

THE  wee,  wet  kiss  against  my  lips, 
The  warm  head  in  its  shoulder  nest, 
The  little  legs  across  my  chest, 
The  f reward  little  finger  tips; 
These  common  riches  of  the  race 
Are  past  all  gains  of  pelf  and  place. 

The  sword  may  conquer  throne  and  state, 
The  song  may  win  the  poet's  bays, 
Finance  may  make  another  great, 
Or  learning  widen  out  the  ways; 
Choose  as  you  will!  My  choice  is  best; 
The  little  life  across  my  breast. 

Tho'  Shakespeare  were  a  petty  name 
To  mine  and  Plato  were  my  fool; 
Tho'  kings  were  subjects  of  my  rule 
And  nations  pawns  to  play  my  game; 
How  poor  I  were,  had  I  not  pressed 
This  little  life  against  my  breast  1 


d7) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT, 


THE  SUPERLATIVE. 

HOW  shall  we  say  it?    How  express 
The  measuring  words  of  the  measureless? 
For 

it's  just  as  sweet  as  a  baby. 

There! 

How  else  may  I  measure  it?  how  compare? 
The  honeyed  dew  on  the  morning  clover? 
The  song  of  the  lark  where  the  blue  bends  over? 
What  the  advantage,  or  what  the  hope 
Of  any  hyperbole,  metaphor,  trope? 
Can  any  of  these  express  the  thrall 
Of  a  baby's  sweetness?     Not  at  all. 
Image  and  simile  rise  and  fall, 
But  sweet  as  a  baby  tells  it  all. 

Ah!   how  define  the  superlative  elf 
But  to  use  its  own  superlative  self. 

Bt 

it's  just  as  dear  as  a  baby. 

There! 

The  last  word's  said  and  the  rest  is  air. 
If  love  be  joy,  does  any  joy  cling 
More  close  to  the  heart  than  this  wee  thing? 
If  love  be  service,  is  not  this  mite 
Served  by  us  gladly,  day  and  night? 

08) 


O,  some  love  place  and  a  courtier-crawl, 
And  some  love  name  and  a  soldier-brawl, 
And  some  love  fame  and  a  poet-scrawl, 
But  the  love  of  a  baby  tops  them  all. 


(19) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


CRADLE  SONG.* 

•O  sleep  the  corn  is  sinking, 
For  heavy  hangs  its  head; 
The  timid  flowers  are  shrinking 
From  darkness  in  their  bed 

And  evening  breezes,  flocking 
Like  gentle  angels  blest, 

Come  softly,  softly  rocking 
The  corn  and  flowers  to  rest. 

And  as  the  flowerets  shrinking, 

So  timid,  too,  art  thou, 

And  as  the  corn-heads  sinking, 

So  nods  thy  dear  head  now. 

And  sounds  of  evening,  winging 

Like  little  angels  blest. 
Come  softly,  softly  singing 

My  darling  one  to  rest. 


From  the  German  of  Hoffman  von  Fallersleben. 
(20) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


UNDER  ORDERS. 

OH,  I  am  the  fag  of  the  infantry, 
The  raw  recruit  of  the  company. 
From  the  bivouac,  ready  for  night  alarms, 
I  stumble  up  at  the  cry  "To  arms!" 
I  hurry  to  where  The  Commander  lies 
And  Present — Arms!  to  still  his  cries. 
"Halt!    Beware! 
Who  goes  there?" 

"Thy  father's  spirit  doomed,  at  sight, 
For  a  certain  time  to  walk  the  night." 

Oh,  I  am  the  jest  of  the  promenade, 
Shivering  there  on  undress  parade. 
The  Commander  cries  "Right  shoulder — shift  I 
Attention — father!"    Steady  and  swift, 
I  hasten  to  heed  his  every  whim 
And  Carry — Arms !  and  likewise  him. 
"Halt!    Take  care! 
Who  goes  there?" 
I  send  my  song  across  the  dark: 
"  'Tis  the  nightingale  and  not  the  lark." 

In  fatigue  dress,  flowing  loose  and  white, 
I  drill  through  the  crawling  hours  of  night. 


(at) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


I  "Forward— march!"  I  "Charge!"  I  "Wheel!"    . 
I  "Double — quick!"  but  still  I  feel 
The  Commander,  all  unmollified, 
Conceives  me  still  unqualified. 
"Who  goes  there? 

Stand  and  swear!" 
"How  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth 
To  have  a  sleepless  child,  forsooth!" 


(M) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


BAWL-IN-THE-FACE. 

UGH!   ugh!   little  Bawl-in-thc-face, 
Whooping  the  whoop  of  the  vanished  race, 
Tell  me  when  did  you  come  to  town, 
With  toes  turned  in, 
And  a  red,  red  skin, 
And  blanket  hanging  down? 

How  have  I  harmed  you,  and  where  and  when?. 
Or  have  you  been  at  the  bottle  again? 

Wah!  wah!  little  Lungs-in-a-race, 

Leading  each  other  a  terrible  chase, 

Tell  me!  when  will  the  trouble  cease? 

Why  show  your  wrath 

On  the  wild  war-path 

These  piping  times  of  peace? 

I'm  doing  the  ghost-dance  all  I  can, 

And  hush!  here  comes  the  medicine-man. 

Boh!  boh!  little  Boss-of-the-place, 

I  believe  I'll  brave  you  to  your  face. 

Though  you  have  my  scalp  and  mama's,  too, 

'Tis  my  belief 

You  are  neither  chief 

Nor  brave,  so  boh!  to  you. 

Oh,  yes,  I  see  that  your  head  is  flat, 

But  where  is  your  scalp-lock,  tell  me  that  I 


(23) 


The  Creepers. 


on  tlje  Jfloor 


_ 

CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


THE  BABY  ON  THE  FLOOR. 

WHEN  Adam  first  knuckled  the  sand  from 
his  eyes 

And  planted  the  clay  of  his  feet  on  its  loam, 
The  Garden  looked  not  half  so  fair,  I  surmise, 
As  the  Eden  whose  commoner  spelling  is  Home. 

And  even  when  woman  came  onto  the  stage 
And  he  vowed  to  this  Eve  he  would  ever  be 

knight, 
And  he  worked  not  a  lick,  though  the  world  was  his 

wage, 
Even  then  he  was  minus  the  chiefest  delight. 

Paradise  never  was.    With  a  stroke  of  my  quill 
I  prove  the  whole  story  absurd  on  its  face. 

Paradise  never  was,  you  may  preach  as  you  will, 
With  never  a  baby  in  all  of  the  place. 

And  yet  I  recall  that  a  creature  there  was 
Which  went  on  its  belly  and  ate  of  the  dust. 

(I  hope  you  will  pardon  this  language,  because 
In  quoting  one  uses  the  words  which  one  must.) 

And  lo!  in  my  Eden  a  creature  I  find 
(How  very  peculiar  the  passion  for  pets!) 

Which  bellies  along  and  is  sadly  inclined 
To  eat  of  the  dust  every  chance  that  it  gets! 

(27) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT, 


As  wise  as  a  serpent  and  minus  the  sting, 
And  harmless,  beside,  as  the  scriptural  dove: 

In  my  bosom  I  warm  it — this  wrigglesome  thing — 
Which  long  ago  wriggled  its  way  to  my  love. 

It  wriggles  and  curls  'round  the  roots  of  my  heart, 

So  I  say  it  again,  as  I  said  it  before, 
The  Eden  of  Adam  was  doomed  from  the  start 

Without  a  wee  baby  to  roll  on  the  floor. 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


THE  GRAND  LAMA,  JR. 

AND  would  you  learn  the  potent  cause 
Which  yields  me  this  profound  content, 
The  hidden  working  of  whose  laws 

Is  boundlessly  beneficent? 
Know,  then,  it  contemplates  no  plan 
Of  faith  in  God,  or  trust  in  man. 
It  lies  beyond  all  mere  opinion 
Of  Arian  dogma,  or  Arminian, 
Of  Calvin's  creed,  or  creed  Socinian, 
Of  Kantian  logic,  or  Darwinian. 
And  yet  serene  and  calm  and  high 
It  raises  me.    The  world  goes  by 

And  joy  may  pass,  or  woe  may  come, 
Yet  with  a  mild  and  placid  eye 

I  sit — and  suck  my  thumb. 

Yet  was  this  calm,  Nirvanic  height 
Not  compassed  at  a  single  bound. 
When  first  these  eyes  beheld  the  light 

And  on  this  planet  gazed  around, 
I  viewed  full  many  a  wrong  and  ill 
Which  would  not  let  my  soul  be  still. 
The  grievous  question  rose  eternally 
How  oft  one  ought  to  dine  diurnally, 
Which  pabulum  would  soothe  internally, 
Or  which  cause  colic  most  infernally. 


(29) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

=J3 


And  then  The  Solace  came  to  dry 
My  tears,  to  still  my  bitter  cry, 

To  bid  my  agony  be  dumb. 
And  all  was  well  with  me,  for  I 

Had  learned— to  suck  my  thumb. 

The  world  around  I  plainly  see 

Is  trouble-tossed  and  passion-rent. 
I  would  that  it  might  learn  from  me 

The  law  to  soothe  its  sad  lament. 
Yea,  even  I  see  my  honored  sire 
Beset  by  worry,  grief,  or  ire, 
Nor  can  he  find  an  absolution 
In  Stoic  teaching,  or  Confucian, 
In  Plato's  thought,  or  wit  of  Lucian, 
Spencerian  lore,  or  Rosicrucian. 
Yet  here  I  sit  beneath  his  eye 
And  silently  exemplify 

A  rule  of  life  to  overcome 
His  every  woe.     I  wonder  why 

He  will  not — suck  his  thumb! 


(30) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

X. 


BABYKIN-BOYKIN-BOO ! 
(A  Nonsense  Rhyme.) 

DID  the  baskety  woman  a-sweeping  the  sky 
Discover  the  Babykin  there? 
Did  she  tumble  him  down  from  his  nest  on 

high 

Through  all  of  the  sky-blue  air? 
Did  she  find  there  was  never  a  room  to  spare 

In  the  toe  of  her  sister's  shoe? 
Surely  that  was  enough  to  scare 
The  Babykin-Boykin-Boo! 

Did  the  moon-man  give  him  a  half  a  crown 

And  tell  him  he'd  better  be  born? 
And  with  Jacky  and  Jill  was  he  tumbled  down 

One  summery,  shiny  morn? 
Or  did  Babykin-Boykin  come  to  town 

On  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn? 
Did  the  Babykin  lie  on  her  back  asleep 

On  a  mattress  of  genuine  hair? 
And  did  Simon  the  simple  and  Little  Bopeep 

Come  skipping  along  to  the  fair? 
Did  they  blatantly  blow  a  terrible  blare 

On  the  horn  of  the  Little  Boy  Blue, 
To  wake  him  up  with  an  awful  scare? 

Poor  Babykin-Boykin-Boo! 


(SO 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


But  if  Babykin-Boykin  now  will  stay, 

We'll  feed  him  on  victuals  and  drink, 
And  the  Muffety  maiden  will  give  him  some  whey 

And  a  pat  of  her  curds,  I  think. 
And  the  toes  of  the  Banbury  dame  shall  play, 

And  her  fingery  bells  go  "chink!" 
And  the  hey-diddle  cow  shall  jump  in  the  air 

As  high  as  she  used  to  do. 
Oh,  dear  me!   but  she  must  not  scare 

Our  Babykin-Boy kin-Boo  I 


(33) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


JANUS,  JR. 

WHINY  and  Shiny  are  two  little  elves 
Who    have    a    strange    habit    of    swapping 

themselves. 

Perhaps  you  are  visiting  Shiny,  when  pop! 
Along  comes  old  Whiny  and  tells  you  to  stop. 
And  you're  willing  to  stop,  for  while  Shiny  is  jolly, 
Poor  Whiny  is  mad  of  a  sad  melancholy. 
Go  'way,  Whiny! 
Come  back,  Shiny! 

Come  back,  little  Shiny,  I  see  you  there  peeping 
From  back  of  old  Whiny.    And  Shiny  comes  leaping. 

Gladsome  and  Badsome  are  certainly  twins, 

But  one  of  them  quits  where  the  other  begins. 

When  one  of  them  peeps  from  a  little  boy's  face, 

The  other  one  takes  himself  off  of  the  place. 

Wherever  the  first  is  the  other  can't  stay; 

If  the  second  comes  back,  then  the  first  runs  away. 

Go  'way,  Badsome! 

Come  back,  Gladsome! 

For  Gladsome  is  just  round  the  corner  and  hoping 
His  owner  will  call  him.    And  back  he  comes  loping. 


(33) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


Cheerful  and  Tearful  are  curious  c/eatures; 
They  are  nothing  alike,  yet  they  have  the  same  fea 
tures. 

But  Tearful's  a  baJ  little  imp  who  annoys 
The  papas  of  girls  and  the  mamas  of  boys, 
For  he  blurs  the  bright  eyes  of  «:he  sunniest  darling 
And  frets  a  sweet  voice  till  he  gets  it  to  snarling. 

Go  'way,  Tearful! 

Come  back,  Cheerful! 

For  Cheerful  is  brimming  with  music  and  laughter 
And  wherever  he  comes,  Sunshine  follows  him  after. 


(30 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOCKS  AND  SHOES. 

THE  little  pink  pigs  have  been  rooting  around, 
Rooting  around  all  night, 
Though  I  warned  them  well  they  must  slum 
ber  sound 

Till  the  blink  of  the  morning  light; 
I  warned  them  well,  as  the  owner  I  gowned 

And  snuggled  them  warm  and  tight. 
But  though  I  told  them  they  mustn't  peep  out, 
The  little  pink  pigs  have  been  rooting  about; 
I  warned  them  one  and  I  warned  them  ten, 
So  now  they  must  go  in  the  sock-and-shoe  pen, 
The  pen  of  the  sock  and  shoe. 

First  the  sock  and  then  the  shoe;  it's  nearly  eigh*- 
o'clock! 

Lock  the  little  pigs  in  the  sock, 
Shoo  the  little  pigs  in  the  shoe, 
Den  the  little  pigs  in  the  pen, 

The  pen  of  the  shoe  and  sock. 

The  little  pink  pigs,  with  a  wriggle  and  dive, 

All  under  the  gown  they  run, 
While  the  owner  watches  me  coax  and  drive, 

And  giggles  a  gale  at  the  fun, 
And  squeals  as  I  swoop  on  a  drove  of  fiv<j> 

And  capture  the  five  in  one. 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 
T> 


Oh,  the  little  pink  pigs  have  been  rooting  about, 

Though  I  warned  them  well  they  mustn't  peep  out, 

So  I  capture  five  and  I  capture  ten 

And  drive  them  into  the  sock-and-shoe  pen, 

The  pen  of  the  sock  and  shoe. 

First  the  sock  and  then  the  shoe,  and  then  the  shoe 
and  sock; 

Lock  the  little  pigs  in  the  sock, 
Shoo  the  little  pigs  in  the  shoe, 
Den  the  little  pigs  in  the  pen, 

It's  almost  eight  o'clock! 


The  Cruisers. 


Cruise  of  tfje 

Utttle  Cot 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

6 

THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    GOOD    SHIP 
LITTLE  TOT. 

DO  you  know  the  ocean  called  Nurseryfloor? 
You  think  it  a  safe  sea,  like  as  not, 
But  the  Rug-Reef  lies  in  a  dangerous  spot, 
And  the  Table-Leg  and  the  Open-Door 

Are  perilous  rocks  for  the  "Little  Tot"; 
Unbuoyed,  unbelled,  and  unmarked  by  a  light 
To  pilot  the  venturous  mariner  right. 
Yet  the  "Little  Tot"  bravely  prepares  to  start, 
And  weighing  anchor  at  Papa's  Knee, 
And  pointing  a  course  to  take  the  lee 
Of  Bedside  Ledges,  she  studies  her  chart, 

And  to  Mamma's  Lap  Harbor  forth  sails  she. 
And  it's  yo  ho  ho,  and  all  hands  stand  by! 
And  it's  steer  by  the  light  in  the  Harbor  eye. 

She  touches  the  port  of  Grandma's  chair, 
And  all  the  inhabitants  cheer  with  glee, 
Hip,  hip,  hip  and  a  three  times  three! 

She  provisions  herself  with  candy  there 
And  turns  her  prow  to  the  open  sea. 

She  waves  farewell  to  the  friendly  shore 

And  sail*  where  never  she  sailed  before. 


(39) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


A  lurch  to  port  and  a  starboard  list; 
Steady,  there,  steady;  keep  her  straight! 
'Tis  a  terrible  sea  to  navigate. 
A  stagger,  a  plunge,  and  a  sudden  twist; 
She  is  going  aground  as  sure  as  fate! 
And  Mamma's  Lap  Harbor  and  Papa's  Knee 
Pull  the  good  ship  "Little  Tot"  out  of  the  sea! 


(40) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


THE  TALK  OF  TWO-YEAR  OLD. 


pitypat,"  over  the  floor; 
Knickaknock,  knickaknock,"  heard  at  the 

door; 

And  the  small,  soft  tones 
That  the  Two-year-old  owns 
Cry  the  curious  cry  "Dubbydo'!  dubby  do'!" 
'Tis  a  mystical  tongue,  but  I  happen  to  know 
That  it  means  (as  nearly  as  words  can  state; 
'Tis  a  difficult  thing  to  quite  translate), 
"Father  dear,  I  am  here  and  dislike  to  wait. 
Will  you  kindly  open  the  door  for  me? 
For  I  can't  quite  reach  the  knob,  you  see." 

In  prances  Two-year-old,  charging  my  knee, 

Filled  to  the  brim  with  imperious  glee. 

"Hin  up!"  is  her  cry, 

Which  1  cannot  deny, 

For  I  read  what  she  means  by  the  light  in  her  eye. 

"Father  dear"  (I  interpret),  "pray  heed  my  behest 

To  be  placed  on  your  knee,  there  to  sit  and  to  rest. 

And,  furthermore,  do  me  the  favor,  I  pray, 

To  grant  my  demand  with  no  vexing  delay." 

I  obey  and  the  Two-year-old  promptly  demands 
All  things  in  the  sweep  of  her  plundering  hands. 
"Taw  dat?"  cry  the  lips 
And  the  pink  finger-tips, 

(41) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


And  of  course  it  is  clear  that  they  mean  "Father 

dear, 

What  is  that  cylindrical  rod  in  your  ear? 
Is  it  merely  a  method  of  dressing  your  hair, 
Or  has  it  some  deeper  significance  there?" 

I  humbly  explain  how  a  pencil  is  used 

And  Two-year-old  deigns  to  be  highly  amused. 

"Me!  me!"  she  demands, 

Reaching  wide-fingered  hands, 

Whose  intent,  plainly  meant,  is  to  say,  "Sir,  I'm  sent, 

By  the  monosyllabicist  I  represent 

To  bid  you  deliver  that  marvelous  treasure, 

Or  suffer  the  pain  of  our  deepest  displeasure." 

She  grasps  the  stiletto,  unsheathed  from  my  ear, 

And  then  like  a  Bayard,  devoid  of  all  fear 

And  ripe  for  a  row, 

Bends  back  and  cries  "Dow,!" 

Which  signifies,  "Sir,  'tis  my  wish  to  retire 

From  the  throne  of  your  knee.     I've  achieved  my 

desire 

And  I  crave  a  seclusion,  with  nobody  nigh 
To  prevent  me  from  running  this  point  in  my  eye. 
And  I  also  decline  to  allow  a  complaint 
Should  my  pleasure  impel  me  to  suck  off  the  paint." 


(42) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 
C 


"Oh,  Two-year-old,  Two-year-old,  hark  to  my  cry, 

Prithee  yield  me  the  weapon  and  poke  not  your  eye!" 

"Na!  na!  na!"  comes  the  word 

And  I  blench  as  'tis  heard, 

Yet  gird  up  my  courage  and  do  the  rash  deed, 

As  Two-year-old  curses  me,  root,  branch  and  seed. 

To  the  portal  she  flies,  as  she  cries  "Dubbydo'5" 

And  the  pregnant  portent  of  that  accent  I  know. 

"I  loathe  thee  and  leave  thee,"  it  says.    "Nevermore 

Will  I  rattle  the  knob  of  thy  traitorous  door." 

And  'tis  fully  five  minutes,  or  possibly  ten, 
Ere  Two-year-old  comes  for  admittance  again. 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  WINDOW. 


I—  GOOD-BYE. 

A  LITTLE  face  shines  at  the  window-sill, 
Like  a  morning  sun  peeps  over  a  hill, 
And  I,  looking  up  from  the  path  below, 
See  the  wee  face  cloud  as  I  turn  to  go. 
And  the  clouds  melt  into  a  mist  which  tries 
(Such  a  troublesome  mist!)  to  blur  my  eyes 
That  my  good-bye  glances  may  scarcely  see 
The  little  sun-face  which  clouds  for  me. 


II.— EN  ROUTE. 

When  the  frosted  stars  of  the  winter  night 

Look  down  on  the  dead  earth  shrouded  white; 

When  the  sun-god  sends  his  quickening  breath 

To  grant  new  life  to  the  clay-cold  death; 

When  the  spring  flower  turns  in  its  mossy  bed 

And  up  from  the  pillow  lifts  its  head; 

When  the  wood  on  the  edge  of  the  sky  is  traced, 

Like  shimmering  azure  fringed  and  laced; 

I  see  their  beauty — and  also  see 

The  face  which  the  window  holds  for  me. 

(44) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


III.— OBEISANCE. 

O,  whether  on  land  or  whether  on  sea 
That  little  sun-face  still  shines  for  me, 
And  I  am  a  Parsee  and  worship  the  sun 
Which  symbols  the  shine  of  my  own  little  one, 
Which   enlightens   my   night,   which   illumines   my 

noon, 

Whether  clouded  or  clear  be  the  sun  and  the  moon. 
And  lo!  as  the  sun  down  the  West's  abyss 
Sinks  slowly  and  sends  me  his  good-night  kiss, 
I  am  sending  it  back  in  the  hope  that  he 
Is  kissing  the  face  in  tha  window  for  me. 


(45) 


THE  TAX  LIST. 

OH,  Mr.  Assessor, 
Why,  what  a  bad  guesser 
You  seem,  as  I  look  at  your  list! 
How  poorly  you  measure 
The  weight  of  my  treasure! 
How  many  the  items  you've  missed! 

"Am  I  horrid  with  hogs?" 

"Am  I  rabid  with  dogs?" 

"Am  I  burdened  with  horses  and  cattle?" 

Pish!  tush!  sir,  I  own 

The  best  stock  ever  known, 

And  its  brand  is  the  bottle  and  rattle. 

You  have  spaces  for  wheels 

And  for  automobiles, 

For  carriages,  high-carts  and  low-carts; 

I  possess  none  of  these, 

But  I'd  like,  if  you  please, 

To  list  my  assortment  of  go-carts. 

Bonds?    Stocks?    Ha!  I  see 

You're  a  stranger  to  me. 

And  "Money  in  banks?"  Ah,  assessor, 

I'm  with  you  at  last, 

But  the  banks  are  locked  fast 

And  we  keep  them  upstairs  on  the  dresser. 

(46) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

3 


What  else  do  I  own? 

Why,  I'd  have  it  be  known 

My  riches  would  dazzle  a  Croesus; — 

Books,  tattered  and  torn, 

Toys,  battered  and  worn, 

And  little  gowns  coming  to  pieces. 

Little  heel-holy  hose, 

Little  shoes  with  the  toes 

Stubbing  through,  which  is  one  way  of  knowing 

My  blessings  increase, 

So  my  soul  is  at  peace 

And  my  God-blessed  riches  are  growing! 


(47) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 

^    TL-_-        JZT 

THE  SPRING-CLEANING  BABY. 

I   CAN'T  imagine  what  I've  done, 
Or  why  I'm  so  neglected; 
Once  I  was  loved  by  everyone, 
But  now  I'm  scarce  respected. 
They  used  to  titillate  my  ear 

With  pretty  names,  devoid  of  meaning, 
But  now  the  only  names  I  hear 

Are  "Now  Be   Good!    Spring   Cleaning!" 

My  cry  once  made  the  household  run 

To  offer  the  attention  due  me, 
But  now  I  bawl  and  squall,  and  none 

Appears  to  even  hearken  to  me. 
I  sit  upon  the  floor  while  they 

Sail  by,  with  heavy  loads  careening. 
When  I  protest,  they  only  say: 

"Be  Good!   Out  Way!   Spring  Cleaning!" 

Why,  once  they  used  to  watch  me  so 

It  almost  made  my  brain  grow  dizzy; 
'Twas  "Ah,  ah,  ah!"  and  "Oh,  no,  no!" 

But,  yesterday,  while  they  were  busy, 
I  ate  two  tacks,  some  moldy  bread, 

A  piece  of  soap  and  half  a  greening, 
And  when  they  caught  me,  all  they  said 

Was  "Do  Be  Good!   Spring  Cleaning!" 

(48) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT, 


Why,  once  they  flew  at  every  speck 

Upon  my  face  with  fearful  rigor, 
And  once  they  grabbed  me  by  the  neck 

And  wiped  my  nose  with  needless  vigor; 
But  now  I  play  in  mud  or  dust, 

And  no  one  dreams  of  intervening; 
It's  odd,  but  I  suppose  that's  just 

What's  meant  by  this  "Spring  Cleaning!" 


(49) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


AN  ARBITER   OF  TITLES. 

I. 

HAVE  you  been  so  well  commended, 
So  attended,  or  befriended, 
That  this  maiden  condescended 
To  receive  you,  bowed  and  bended? 
She,  the  proud  Miss  Michaella 
Consuella  Arabella, 
The  F.  F.  V.,  the  D.  A.  R., 
The  has  bleu  and  the  social  star! 
She's  toute  a.u  fait  and  comme  it  faut 
And  all  her  words  and  actions  show 
Exactly  thus,  precisely  so. 
Particularly  does  she  claim 
A  nice  observance  of  her  name 
And  signs  it  fully,  "Michaella 
Consuella  Arabella," 
For  less  than  that  she  does  not  like. 
Yet  when  this  maiden  goes  to  see 
The  Little  Tot,  she's  glad  to  be 
Just  plain  "Aunt  Mike." 

II. 

Have  you  met  that  dame  of  graces 
Whose  aristocratic  face  is 
Finely  wrought  as  priceless  lace  is, 
Or  the  rare  of  rarest  vases? 
(50) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


She,  a  Van  der  Stuyphen-Stuyphen 

Of  the  bluest-blooded  hyphen! 

She,  the  cream  of  richest  cream, 

La.  plus  grande  dame  des  grandissimes,, 

In  the  halls  of  whose  colonial 

Ancestry  the  ceremonial 

Pales  the  ducal  and  baronial! 

Particularly  is  she  set 

And  rigid  in  the  etiquette 

Which  doth  hedge  the  cherished  hyphen 

Linking  Stuyphen  unto  Stuyphen, 

"Pis  the  crest  and  oriflamme 

Of  her  race  and  place,  yet  when 

The  Little  Tot's  her  guest,  why  then 

She's  just  plain  "Gram." 

III. 

Visiting  among  your  betters, 
Have  you  met  that  man  of  letters 
To  whom  all  of  us  are  debtors, 
Him  whose  total  title  fetters 
All  the  alphabets  of  story 
To  express  the  half  its  glory? 
For  he's  A.  B.  C.  to  X.  Y.  Z.; 
He's  P.  D.  Q.  and  Q.  E.  D., 
Famous,  flattered,  celebrated, 
Feasted,  banqueted  and  feted, 
Ribanded  and  decorated  1 

(SO 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


And  he's  proud  of  his  degrees, 
Of  his  D's  and  double  D's, 
Scientific,  civil,  moral, 
For  he  is  so  decked  with  laurel 
That  he's  heavy  at  the  top. 
Yet  when  he  views  the  Little  Tot 
All  other  titles  are  forgot 
Except  plain  "Pop!" 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


THE  CENTER  OF  THE  UNIVERSE. 

I    LOVE  to  view  the  sea  at  night, 
Torn  by  the  storm-king's  awesome  might. 
The  wild  waves  lead  the  fierce  attack; 
They  meet  the  wind  which  beats  them  back 

With  cries  of  mad  commotion: 
And  I — I  think  of  nights  agone 
When  Peter  raged  with  wind  upon 

His  stomach,  like  this  troubled  ocean. 

I  love  to  call  the  immortal  roll, 

Of  history's  emblazoned  scroll, 

To  read  of  revolution's  hour 

When  men  go  mad  with  wrath  and  power 

And  every  soul  is  seething. 
It  holds  me  in  a  mute  amaze 
And  minds  me  of  the  fretful  days 

Which  little  Peter  had  while  teething. 

I  love  the  accents  of  the  stage, 
The  noble  grief,  the  rhythmic  rage. 
Oft  have  I  viewed  the  tragic  queen 
Portray  Camille  in  that  sad  scene 

Which  marks  her  mournful  taking-off. 
It  sets  my  soul  upon  the  rack 
And  brings  such  fervent  memories  back 

Of  little  Peter's  whooping-cough. 


(53) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


I  love  to  lift  my  wondering  eyes 
To  view  the  marvels  of  the  skies. 
Who  tinted  them  that  perfect  hue? 
What  Artist  stretched  that  boundless  blue 

Upon  his  myriad  easels? 
What  cosmic  brush  was  this  which  swirled 
Planet  on  planet,  world  on  world, 

As  thick  as  little  Peter's  measles! 


The  Climbers 


of 


THE  CHILDHOOD  OF  SPRING. 

WHEN  shine  and  shadow  play  across  the  sky 
And  daisies  hold  their  haloed  heads  on  high, 
Then  all  the  earth  is  as  a  little  child, 
Smilingly  tearful,  boisterously  mild, 
Then  drops  the  husk  of  years  from  off  the  soul 
And  long-lost  freedom  in  us  seems  to  sing; 
Ah,  earth  was  sick,  but  Spring  has  made  it  whole, 
And  life  was  old,  but  childhood  comes  with  Spring. 


(57) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

X? 


TWO  LITTLE  SERVING-MEN. 

TWO  little  serving-men  have  I, 
And  one  is  strong  and  very  spry. 
He  loves  to  hammer,  plane,  and  saw, 
To  write,  and,  sometimes,  even  draw. 
He  takes  my  hat  and  hangs  it  up; 
He  reaches  down  my  drinking-cup; 
He  winds  my  top,  and  throws  my  ball. 
I  couldn't  get  along  at  all 
Without  this  little  serving-man 
Who  helps  me  out  in  every  plan. 

The  other  sympathizes,  too, 

But  is  not  half  so  quick  to  do. 

Some  things  he  does  quite  well,  but  my! 

Some  others  he  won't  even  try. 

He  will  not  split  the  kindling-wood, 

And  yet,  he  is  so  very  good 

He  holds  it  while  the  other  chops. 

He  also  helps  him  wind  my  tops; 

But  spin  them?    He  can't  spin  at  all. 

You  ought  to  see  him  throw  a  ball! 

Just  like  a  girl!    And — it's  a  shame, 

But  he  can  hardly  write  his  name. 


(58) 


And  yet,  these  serving-men  are  twins, 

And  look  as  like  as  two  new  pins. 

I  think,  perhaps,  you'll  understand 

If  you  should  know  their  name.     It's  Hand, 

And  one,  you  know,  is  Right  and  deft; 

And  one,  of  course,  is  slow  and  Left. 

And  yet,  you  know,  I  often  find 
That  if  I'm  calm  with  Left,  and  kind, 
He'll  do  a  lot  of  things,  although 
He's  awkward  and  a  little  slow; 
And  so  I  often  think,  perhaps, 
He's  much  like  me,  and  other  chaps, 
Who  know  enough  to  do  our  part, 
But  some  quick  fellow,  extra  smart, 
Jumps  in  and  does  it  first,  and  so 
We  just  get  used  to  being  slow. 
And  that's  the  way  we  don't  get  trained, 
Because,  perhaps,  we're  just  left-brained! 


(59) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

^^  ^^ 


AT  THE  CONCERT. 

YESTERDAY  papa  asked  me  did  It  want  to  go 
Out  wif   him.     Papa  he   calls   me   "It,"  you 

know, 
And    I    says    "Hm-hm!"    'cause    "Hm-hm"    means 

"Yes," 

And  papa  he  looks  at  me  and  he  says,  "I  guess 
It  can  go  all  right.     That's  a  awful  dress, 
But  Its  coat  will  cover  it  up  and  Its  hat 
Will  cover  Its  hair,  so  we  needn't  comb  that. 
If  I'm  good  enough,  why,  I  guess  It'll  do," 
He  says,  and  he  went  right  out  —  and  me,  too. 

Yesterday  we  rode  and  we  rode  and  papa  he 
Give  me  a  penny,  but  'twasn't  fer  me, 
'Cause  a  man  wif  a  cap  on  he  took  it  away 
When  papa  says,  "This  feller's  going  to  pay." 
And  I  pushed  the  ringer  that  stops  the  car 
When  you  want  to  get  off  where  the  thee-ter  are. 
And   I   give   'nother   penny   where    the   man   peeks 

through 
And  he  let  papa  in  —  and  he  let  me,  too. 

Yesterday  a  lot  of  mens,  they  blew 
On  a  horn  and  a  drum,  like  I  like  to  do, 
And  they  blew  and  they  blew  and  made  more  noise 
Than  free,  four,  forty  hundred  boys. 
And  a  man  —  their  papa  I  guess  he  wuz  — 
He  shook  a  stick  at  'em  —  like  my  pa  does. 
(60) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


And  the  more  that  he  shook  why  the  worser  they 

blew. 
They  knew  he  was  their  papa — and  I  did,  too. 

Yesterday  a  mamma  come  out  then  and  I  said 

Was  her  mamma  gettin*  her  fixed  fer  bed? 

'Cause  her  dress  was  off  her,  and  papa  says,  "Look 

And  you'll  see,"  and  the  papa-man  shook 

His  stick  at  her,  like  he  done  it  before, 

And  she  sauced  him  back  and  he  done  it  some  more. 

And  the  mens  with  the  horns  and  the  drums  they 

blew. 

And  she  just  hollered! — and  I  did,  too. 
Yesterday  papa  says,  "Ssh!  don't  you  know 
You  mustn't  'terrup'  the  lady  so?" 
And  I  says,  "No,  papa,  I  don't  see 
Why  I  mustn't.   .Ain't  she  'terrup tin'  me?" 
And  papa  laughs  and  says,  "Well,  you're  the  worst." 
And  I  says,  "Anyway,  she  hollered  first." 
And  ever'body  was  so  glad  when  she  got  through 
That  they  just  pat-a-caked — and  I  did,  too. 

Yesterday  papa  he  says,  "Here! 
Take  that  and  stop  your  mouth,  now,  that's  a  dear!" 
And  he  gimme  chawk-late  candy  and  I  eat 
A  lot  and  spread  the  rest  out  on  the  seat, 
And  then  a  lady  wif  a  white  dress  on,  she  come 
A-scrougin*  in  and  sat  right  down  on  thum! 
And  papa  grabbed  me  up  and  he  says,  "Whew! 
I'm  glad  we  got  away  alive !" — and  I  was,  too. 
(61) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


MRS.  SANTA  CLAUS. 

HOW  on  Earth  did  the  fiction  grow 
That  Santa  Claus  is  a  man?   Ho,  hoi 
Santa  Claus  is  a  woman.     There! 
I  make  the  assertion  fair  and  square 
And  you  can  blazon  it  everywhere. 

How  do  I  know  that  the  thing  is  true? 

'Tis  simple  enough.     I'll  leave  it  to  you. 

Who  knows  what  you  want  for  Christmas?     Say! 

Is  it  a  man  who  goes  away 

Right  after  breakfast  and  stays  all  day? 

Or  is  it  a  woman  who's  always  by 

With  the  light  of  love  in  her  watching  eye? 

Why,  a  Santa  Claus  man  would  bring  white  rats 

To  a  girl  whose  chief  delight  was  cats, 

And  books  to  a  boy  who  wanted  bats! 

And  the  Christmas  stocking—  can  you  dream 
That  a  man  conceived  that  clever  scheme? 
A  man  would  have  got  a  clumsy  box 
And  bothered  with  nails  and  screws  and  locks, 
Or,  at  the  best,  would  have  hung  up  socks. 


(62) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT, 


And  then  the  name.    Who  ever  heard 
Of  a  man  called  "Santy?"    It's  absurd. 
Eat  every  one  knows  how  little  folks  name 
A  dear  friend  "Auntie,"  just  the  same 
As  though  they  really  had  kinship's  claim. 

And  so  It  happened  that  people  came 
To  think  'twas  really  her  given  name; 
And  this,  by  a  natural  error,  was 
Corrupted  to  "Santie"  just  because  ^ 
She  was  known  as  "Mrs.  Auntie  Claus." 


(63) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


INDIRECT  DISCOURSE. 

WHEN  I  was  borned,  I  wasn't  nothin'  but 
A  little  baby.     Was  my  eyes  shut 
Like  kitty-babies?     Papa,  will  you  buy 
A  skitching-rope  en  chatelaine-pony  fer  my 
Birthday?     En  a  paint-brush,  too? 
Wolves  can't  talk,  rilly,  just  like  people  do, 
Kin  they?   But  mebby  once  they  could, 
Er  how'd  the  wolf  say,  "Each-choo-up!"  at  Ridin'- 
Hood? 

Is  it  to-morrow,  papa?   Well,  why  ain't  to-day 
To-morrow?  Yesterday,  what  made  you  say 
To-morrow  'Id  come  to-day?   Mm-mm,  I  don't  see 
Why.   Papa!  papa,  can't  you  hark  at  me? 
Aw,  papa,  if  to-morrow  was  to-day 
Does  that  make  yesterday  to-morrow?    Say! 
En,  papa,  will  you  buy  me  a  numbrella 
Like's   on   the   groc'ry-wagon?    How  could   Cinder 
ella 

Dance  without  breakin'  'em?    Was  her  sisters  mad 
That  used  to  scoff  at  her?   Or  was  they  glad? 
Why  didn't  she  lose  the  other  slipper  off? 
Say,  papa,  will  you  learn  me  how  to  scoff? 


(64) 


What  was  I  when  I  wasn't  borned?    Are  dead 
Folks  folks,  or  are  they  un-borned?   Aunt  Lou  said 
'At  I'd  be  dead,  too,  sometime.    I'll  be  mad 
Ef  I'm  dead.    Well,  what  makes  folks  sad 
If  ever'body  dies?  Does  God  make  'em  dead? 
When  Aunt  Lou  comes,  can  I  sleep  in  your  bed? 
My  room's  the  spare  room  when  folks  come  to  visit. 
It  isn't  nice  of  God  to  make  folks  dead  folks,  is  it? 


(65) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT, 


THE  MOO-COW-MOO. 

MY  pa  held  me  up  to  the  moo-cow-moo 
So  clost  I  could  almost  touch, 
En  I  fed  him  a  couple  of  times,  or  two, 
En  I  wasn't  a  fraid-cat  much. 

But  ef  my  papa  goes  into  the  house, 

En  mamma,  she  goes  in,  too, 
I  just  keep  still,  like  a  little  mouse, 

Fer  the  moo-cow-moo  might  moo! 

The  moo-cow-moo's  got  a  tail  like  a  rope 
En  its  raveled  down  where  it  grows, 

En  it's  just  like  feeling  a  piece  of  soap 
All  over  the  moo-cow's  nose. 

En  the  moo-cow-moo  has  lots  of  fun 

Just  swinging  his  tail  about; 
En  he  opens  his  mouth  and  then  I  run — 

'Cause  that's  where  the  moo  comes  out. 

En  the  moo-cow-moo's  got  deers  on  his  head 
En  his  eyes  stick  out  o'  their  place, 

En  the  nose  o'  the  moo-cow-moo  is  spread 
All-over  the  end  of  his  face. 


(66) 


jffloo- 

€oto  Jffloo 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


En  his  feet  is  nothing  but  finger-nails 
En  his  mamma  don't  keep  'em  cut, 

En  he  gives  folks  milk  in  water-pails 
Ef  he  don't  keep  his  handles  shut. 

'Cause  ef  you  er  me  pulls  the  handles,  why 
The  moo-cow-moo  says  it  hurts, 

But  the  hired  man  he  sits  down  clost  by 
En  squirts  en  squirts  en  squirts  I 


(67) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


THE  HEN. 

WE  got  a  hen,  we  have,  en  he  lays  eggs! 
He's  lame,  because  he  only  has  two  legs; 
His  front  legs  are  just  feathers,  en  he  flies 
T  you  chast  him.     Anyhow,  he  tries, 
En  flops  hisself  away  up  in  the  air 
En  falls  up  the  back  fence,  er  anywhere. 

We  got  a  claw-cat  en  he's  got  four  legs, 

But  he's  so  lazy  he  won't  lay  no  eggs 

Ner  nothin'.     He  flies  up  the  bark 

Of  trees,  en  nights  when  it's  all  dark 

He  stays  out  doors  en  hollers  like  he's  cryin', 

En  I  p'tend  to  suster  he's  a  lion 

A-seekin'  round  to  eat  us  in  our  bed, 

Till  we  get  scared  en  cover  up  our  head. 

Our  chicky-hen  has  got  two  tooths  that  sticks 
Out  of  the  front  end  of  his  face  en  picks 
Up  worms  en  bugs  en  things,  en  then 
He  swallers  'em.     Glad  I  ain't  a  hen 
En  eat  old,  nasty  worms.     En  I  bet 
I'm  glad  I  ain't  a  worm,  too,  to  be  et! 

Our  claw-cat  he  can't  rilly  fly,  bicause 
He's  got  to  have  a  tree  to  put  his  claws, 
But  if  he  was  a  robin  he  could  fly 
Clear  to  the  moon,  'way  up-stairs  in  the  sky. 

(68) 


y 

CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


A  rooster  ain't  a  hen.     He  just  p'tends 

To  be.    He's  got  a  feather-duster  where  he  ends, 

En  p'raps  it  gets  made  over  when  he's  done 

With  it,  'cause  our  old  hen  has  got  a  wore-out  one! 


(69) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

WHEN    FOLKS    COME   T'OUR   HOUSE. 

EVER'  one  't  comes  t'our  house  talks  just  the 
same. 
"Hullo,  li'l   girl,  they  say,  "en  what's  your 

name?" 

"Why,  what  a  pritty  name!"  they  say,  en  then 
Bimeby  they  ast  me  what's  my  name  again. 
En  then,  when  I  feel  silly  for  thum,  why 
They  say,  "Oh,  dear,  I  do  believe  it's  shy." 

Then,  mebby,  affer  while,  they  ast  me,  "P'raps 
I'd  like  to  come  en  sit  up  on  their  laps," 
En  when  I  say  "Uh-uh!"  they  coax  en  coax, 
As  if  I  ought  to  want  to  sit  on  folks. 

En  then  they  ast  how  old  am  I,  en  "Ool" 
They  say  en  lift  me  like  it  hurts  thum  to. 
En  what  a  nice,  big  girl  I  am,  as  tho, 
Bigness  is  niceness,  'cause  it  isn't  so, 
'Cause  if  it  was,  there's  lots  of  folks  would  be 
As  nicer  as  my  mama  is — or  me. 

En  then  they  stick  their  fingers  in  me — there 
En  pat  me  on  the  head  en  muss  my  hair 
En  say  I  got  my  papa's  forrid,  but 
If  I  do  things  to  thum,  pa  says  "Tut,  tut, 
I  mustn't!"  en  asts  me  "Can't  I  see 
Manners  in  folks  is  imperdence  in  me?" 

(70) 


En  then  they  ast  me  how'd  I  like  to  come 

En  leave  my  papa's  home  en  live  with  thum? 

En  one  day  Mr.  Fred  who  comes  to  take 

My  aunt  to  thee-ters  en  who  eats  more  cake 

Than  I  get  ever*  supper-time,  when  he 

Is  ast  by  her  en  ma  to  stay  to  tea, 

He  ast  me  that,  en  I  says,  "No,  I  can't, 

But  if  you  want  some  one  reel  much,  why  ast  my 

aunt." 

En  then  Aunt  Lou  en  him  they  both  got  red 
En  mama  says,  "Come,  dear,  it's  time  for  bed." 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

6^  =GL 


THE  LINGUISTS. 

WHEN  you  say  "Silver  plate,"  that's  when 
You're  Frence  'n*  sayin'  "If  you  please,"  en 

then 

Ef  you're  a  German,  why  you  talk  reel  plain 
En  p'lite  en  answer  "Thank  you,"  en  that's  "Donkey- 
chain." 

"Leave  her,  Dick,"  means  "I  love  you."    Sister,  she 
Says  'tisn't  "Leave  her,  Dick,"  it's  "Lee-bee-dee," 
But  that's  silly.    German's  hard  fer  her, 

rence  is  easy.     She  says  "Weemy-sir," 
r'or  "Yes,   sir,"  just  as  nice,  en  says,  "No  ma'am,'* 
tut    that   ain't    "Weerny-sir,"    it's    "Wecmy-t/a.-r.." 

Language  is  funny,  ain't  it?    But  it's  awful  pritty. 
"Mercy"  is  Frence,  en  it  means  "Thanks,"  but  "Pity" 
Is  German  en  means  "Please."    En  "See"  en  "Do" 
Are  just  the  same,  'cause  both  of  them  mean  "You." 

When  you  meet  folks  in  Frence,  you  always  say 
"Be  sure,"  because  that  means  "Good  day." 
But  once  we  spoke  a  German  dialogue 
En  then  "Good  day"  was  only  "Gut-and-dog." 

En  "Come-on-seven-tail"  means  "How  de  do," 
Er  some  fo?ks  say  "Come  on,  you  party,  you." 


(72) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

TL.       -S> 


Sister  she  says  that  to  be  reel  p'lite 

Commee  voo  portee  voo  is  mostest  right, 

But  that  ain't  language.   You  must  say  reel  words 

When  you're  a-talkin',  'relse  you're  just  like  birds 

That  say  things,  but  can't  talk.     I'm  so   good  in 

Frence, 

Bicause  I  always  listen  fer  the  sense, 
But  sister  she's  the  biggest  goose  you  ever  saw 
En  always  answers  "Jennie,  come  prong  pa!" 


(73) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


THE  PAPA-DOLLY. 

EF  my  papa  was  a  dolly,  tell  you  what 
He'd  have  lots  o'  things  'at  he  ain't  got, 
'Cause  I'd  go  down  town  en  buy  a  sled 
En  a  trumpet  en  a  dolly's  bed 
En  give  'em  to  him.     Bet  I  would 
Ef  my  papa  was  a  dolly  en  I  could. 
Course,  ef  he  was  dist  a  dolly,  mebbe  he 
Couldn't  use  'em  en  would  give  'em  back  to  me. 

Ef  my  papa  was  a  dolly,  I'd  dist  buy 
The  biggest  cake  fer  him  'at  ever  I 
Could  find,  en  I'd  put  jelly  on  it,  too, 
En  jam  wif  sugar  on  to  git  soaked  through 
En  taste  nice.    En  I'd  take  en  slop 
Some  honey  on,  en  m'lasses  on  the  top 
Wif  heaps  o'  frostin'  on  to  make  it  sweet 
En  then  my  pa  en  me  'Id  eat  en  eat 
En  eat.    Course  though  ef  papa'd  be 
My  doll,  he'd  give  his  part  to  me. 

Ef  my  papa  was  a  dolly  sure,  I'd  dress 
Him  in  a  yallow  hat,  er  pink,  I  guess, 
Wif  green  twousers  en  red  slippers,  so  he'd  look 
Like  the  pitchers  in  my  Giunt  Book. 
But  ef  he  was  a  dolly,  I  don't  s'pose 
He'd  care  a  bit  ef  he  had  pritty  clo'es 
Er  didn't.     En  then,  mebbe, — mebbe  ef 
He  didn't,  I'd  dist  wear  'em  my  own  se'f! 
(74) 


n 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


THE  SHAVE  STORE. 

YESTERDAY,  papa  says  "Will  it  behave, 
If  I  should  take  it  while  I  get  a  shave?" 
'N'  I  says  "Yes,"  as  loud  as  I  could  talk, 
So  me  en  he,  we  went  out  for  a  walk 
Clear  to  the  Shave  Store.    En  then  I  sat  there 
En  papa  climbed  up  in  a  dentist's  chair 
En  had  a  bib  on.     En  the  shave  man  took 
En  painted  papa  till  he  made  him  look 
Like  frostin'  on  a  angel-cake.     Mm!  he  looked  nice  I 
'N'  I  thought  the  man  was  goin'  to  cut  a  slice. 
He  took  a  knife  en  wiped  en  wiped  it,  but 
He  didn't  hurt  my  papa.     He  just  cut 
The  frostin'  off  his  face  en  took  another 
Knife  en  wiped  it  on  a  piece  o'  hither 
En  painted  papa  more,  en  cut  en  cut, 
En  mussed  his  hair,  en  slapped  his  face  en  shut 
The  old  knife  up.     En  washed  his  face,  he  did 
Like    papa   washes   mine    sometimes,   en    calls    me 

"Kid." 

En  he  put  baby-powder  on  him,  too, 
En  smelled  him  up,  en  when  he  was  all  through, 
The  shave  store  man  says  "  'Bye,  young  lady,  when 
You  want  another  shave,  just  call  again!" 


(75) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


IF  I  DIDN'T  FORGET  HOW  OLD  I  WAS. 

IF  I  didn't  forget  how  old  I  was, 
Do  you  think  I'd  act  like  I  often  does? 
Do  you  think  I'd  swing  on  the  front  yard  gate, 
If  I  could  remember  that  I  was  eight? 

If  I  didn't  forget  how  soon  I'd  grow 
To  be  a  big  man  like  Uncle  Joe, 
Do  you  think  my  pa  would  have  to  scold 
'Cuz  I  didn't  do  what  I  was  told? 

Do  you  think  I'd  set  my  ma  so  wild 

An'  act  so  much  like  a  little  child, 

If  I  didn't  forget  I  was  half-past  eight, 

An'  would  Miss  Brown  have  to  keep  me  late? 

Miss  Brown  said  I  was  "a  little  fiend," 
An'  I  didn't  know  what  the  old  thing  meaned, 
But  she  said  'twas  becuz  I  played  so  rough, 
An'  it  made  my  ma  just  cry — sure  'nough. 

If  I  didn't  forget,  do  you  s'pose  that  I 
Would  ever  act  so's  to  make  her  cry? 
And  don't  jou  suppose  I'd  behave  just  fine, 
If  I  didn't  forget  I  was  going-on-nine? 


(76) 


cw= 

CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

G^ 


If  I  could  remember,  do  you  suppose 
I  wouldn't  take  care  of  my  Sunday  clo'es? 
An'  would  I  get  mad  at  my  Cousin  Ben 
Without  getting  right  away  good  again? 

Pa  says  he  believes  I  was  just  born  bad, 
An'  Uncle  Joe  says  that  I'm  "like  my  dad," 
An'  Aunt  Lou  says  she  don't  suppose 
I'll  ever  be  better,  but  ma — she  knows, 
An'  she  hugs  me  clost  with  a  kiss,  becuz 
She  says  I  forgot  how  old  I  wasl 


(77) 


Xs 

CHE 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


LEOPOLD. 

THIS  is  the  story  of  Leopold, 
A  man  of  the  world  just  five  years  old, 
A  little  bit  wise  and  a  little  bit  bold, 
Who  wanted  a  guinea  of  gold. 

Poor  little,  sad  little  five-year-old, 
Of  woes  of  avarice  never  told, 
Too  much  charmed  by  the  gleamy  gold 
Wanted  one  piece  to  have  and  to  hold. 

Papa  might  laugh  and  mama  might  scold, 
Toys   grow  tarnished  or  gray  with  mold, 
Porridge  be  hot,  or  porridge  be  cold, 
Little  cared  little  Leopold. 

Out  of  the  house  the  boykin  strolled, 

And  round  and  round  the  blue  eyes  rolled, 

Always  looking  for  gold,  gold,  gold. 

Money  was  everywhere — wealth  untold — 
Copper  and  silver  and  glistening  gold, 
Greedily  grasped  and  stingily  doled, 
Cheated  for,  fought  foi,  bought  and  sold. 

Across  the  counters  it  slid  and  rolled, 
And  big  iron  safes  looked  cross  and  cold 
And  stretched  their  arms  to  catch  and  hold, 
As  a  miser  does,  the  gleamy  gold. 
(78) 


•r 

CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


And  who  could  have  forced  or  who  cajoled 
One  piece  from  their  grasping,  clasping  hold? 

Tired,  so  tired,  grew  our  five-year-old; 
(Gold-hunting  feet  should  be  harder  soled) 
And  the  big  church  bell  the  death-knell  tolled 
Of  by-gone  hours,  till  at  last  he  strolled 
Into  a  street  of  a  different  mold, 
Where  nothing  was  bought  and  nothing  sold. 

"Ho!"  sniffed  sad  little  Leopold, 

As  if  to  say  that  to  search  for  gold 

In  a  place  where  none  of  it  round  him  rolled 

Were  foolish  in  a  wise  five-year-old. 

He  turned  to  go,  when  lo,  and  behold! 
Down  at  his  feet  in  the  untrod  mold 
Lay  a  bright  guinea  of  gold,  gold,  gold! 

But  no  one  ever  has  seen  or  told 
Of  a  satisfied  searcher  after  gold: 
"I'll  look  for  some  moreS"  cried  Leopold,, 

Now  aren't  we  all  like  five-year-old, 
After  something  gleamy  as  gold? 
And  perhaps  the  prize  we  hope  to  hold 
Is  down  the  street  we  haven't  strolled, 
So  be  a  bit  wise  and  a  little  bit  bold, 
But  don't  be  greedy  like  Leopold! 

(79) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


NO  SHOOTIN'  OFF  THIS  YEAR. 

(Remarks  of  a  victim  of  the  movement  to  curtail 
the  usual  festivities  of  the  Fourth.^ 

THERE  ain't  no  Declaration.     Naw 
There  ain't  no  Fourth-July. 
There  ain't  no  "free  'n'  equal"  law, 
'N'  Washin'ton  could  lie. 
They  never  dumped  no  Boston  tea; 

It's  fakey,  all  you  hear, 
Fer  pop  says  there  ain't  goin'  to  be 
No  shootin'  off  this  year. 

They  talk  about  pertectin'  us 

To  keep  the  Fourth  in  peace; 
But  fo}e  ain't  makin'  any  fuss, 

Ner  askin'  fer  police. 
We  ain't  afraid  of  smoke  'n'  noise, 

Er  little  lumps  of  lead; 
'N'  why  should  they  blame  livin'  boys 

Because  some  boys  is  dead? 

It  ain't  my  fault  the  fuse  went  out 

'N'  Tom  went  up  'n'  blew; 
Besides,  he's  just  as  well  without 

His  extry  ear,  er  two. 
They  cut  off  Oscar's  leg,  but  he 

Don't  seem  to  miss  it  much; 
He'd  beat  us  hoppin'  yet,  if  we 

'Ud  let  him  use  his  crutch. 
(80) 


It  ain't  my  fault  that  Willie  blew 

His  hand  off,  like  a  chump. 
I  told  him  what  those  big  ones  do; 

He  needn't  'a'  took  the  stump. 
It  ain't  my  fault  a  rocket  flies 

'N'  hits  some  him,  er  her; 
Somebody's  got  to  wear  glass  eyes; 

That's  what  glass  eyes  is  fer! 

It  ain't  my  fault  the  stuff  was  bad 

They  made  Jim's  pistol  of; 
Besides  the  preacher  said  "We're  glad 

He's  happier  up  above!" 
Bet  I'd  be  happier,  anyhow, 

Most  any  place  but  here, 
Where  they  ain't  goin'  to  allow 

No  shootin'  off  this  year! 


(81) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


A  THURRU'  REST. 

EXAMINATION'S   over   'n'   I   don't   care   if   I 
passed, 
An'  I  don't  care  if  I  didn't,  fer  vacation's  come 

at  last! 
I  thought  'tould  never  git  here,  fer  the  days  dragged 

by  as  slow 
As  Davy  Jones's  ma,  who  calls  'n'  don't  know  when 

to  go. 
Pop  says  I  ort  to  go  to  work,  but  ma  says  she  knows 

best, 
'N'  what  a  boy  of  my  age  needs  is  just  a  thurru*  rest. 

So  me  an'  Dave  '11  get  op  every  mornin'  bright  'n' 

soon, 
An'  pitch  'n'  ketch  till  breakfast  'n'  bat  up  flies  till 

noon. 
'Cause  after  dinner  every  day  the  Hustlehards  —  his 

nine  — 
Is  goin'  to  play  a  series  fer  the  champeenship  with 

mine: 
The  one  behind  at  dark  has  got  to  say  the  other's 

best. 
Gee!  ain't  I  glad  vacation's  here  'n*  I  got  time  to 

rest. 

Then  I'm  a-goin*  to  iearn  the  other  fellers  how  to 

dive, 

An'  rassle  Billy  Potter,  best  thirteen  in  twenty-five. 
(82) 


'N'  after  supper  Dave  'n'  I  are  goin'  to  have  a  race, 
Ten  times  around  the  block,  'n'  if  I  win  he'll  bust  my 

face. 
That's  what  he  says!  But  he'll  find  out  which  one  of 

us  is  best; 
I'm  feeling  pretty  strong  now  since  I'm  havin'  such 

a  rest. 

There's  goin'  to  be  a  picnic  'n'  you  bet  yer  life  I'm 

goin'; 
I'm  entered  in  the  swimmin*  race,  'n'  greasy  pole,  'n' 

rowin'. 

The  sack-race  'n'  potato  race  are  mine,  I  bet  a  dime, 
'N'  in  "the  mile"  I  simply  got  to  win  the  prize  fer 

time, 
'Cause  it's  a  ticket  to  the  Gym.    I  like  that  prize  the 

best, 
Fer  a  feller  needs  some  exercise  as  well  as  just  a 

rest. 

I'm  goin'  to  visit  uncle's  farm.    He  lets  me  do  the 

chores 
'N'  work  just  like  the  farm-hands  do,  right  in  the 

fields  out-doors, 
I'm  goin'  to  git  a  bag  to  punch,  so's  I  won't  git  too 

fat: 
We're  goin'  to  have  a  six-day-race — I  got  to  train  fer 

that. 
I  want  to  do  so  many  things,  I  don't  know  which  is 

best; 

I  bet  vacation's  over  'fore  I  get  a  thurru'  rest! 
(83) 


WILLIE'S  LETTERS  TO  HIS  TEACHER. 


(Being  the   product   of  a   devoted  adherent  to  the 

modern  system  of  enriched  education  in  vogue 

in  some  of  our  public  schools.) 

DEER  TEECHER 
My  fother  he  said  he'd  give 
A  quatter  to  me  if  Ide  spel  "sive" 
I  kno  that  aint  the  way  to  spel 
The  blame  old  word  but  I  can't  tell 
Whether  its  e-i  like  beleive 
Or  whether  its  i-e  like  recieve, 
But  there  ain't  no  feathers  on  grasshoppers  legs 
'Cause  a  grasshopper  dont  set  on  his  eggs 

Last  Saterdy  ma  sent  me  down  street 
To  get  some  potaties  and  eggs  and  meet 
And  when  I  come  back  she  said  that  I 
Was  just  a  dollar  aand  twelv  cents  shy 
Cause  I  cant  figger     But  I  says  Well 
Maybe  I  cant  but  I  can  tell 
How  many  feat  has  a  cattypiller 
And  she  curls  up  dede  if  you  try  to  kill  her 

Joe  Miller  he  said  that  hed  bet  a  cent 
I  couldent  tell  whether  "I  had  went" 
(84) 


rslli^  flHptra 

to  hi* 


Tl. 


_  _ 

CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


Or  "I  was  been"  was  correctest,  so 

He  be  very  much  glad  if  youll  let  me  kno 

Cause  I  ain't  no  good  on  grammar  this  term 

But  I  kno  which  end  of  a  angle-werm 

Is  its  head  because  you  taut  me  which 

Your  lowing  skoller 

WILIE  N  RICH. 


II. 


DEER  TEECHER 
Fother  don't  think  it  smort 
For  me  to  kno  so  much  about  Ort 
And  Spiders    He  says  if  I 
Could  rite  and  sipher  and  spel  hed  try 
To  fergive  my  knoin  some  less  about  bottiny, 
Though  he  wouldent  care  if  I  wasentNtaut  any 
He  says  that  Gography  fits  my  needs 
More  better  than  spiders  and  all  their  breeds. 

But  I  says  to  pa  I  dont  see  why 
I  should  studdy  ritin  so  much  fer  I 
Am  a  goin  to  rite  on  a  type-riter  when 
I  git  growed  up  like  other  men 
And  pa  kind  of  laughd  and  he  says  Well 
But  a  typeriter  dont  kno  how  to  spel 
But  I  wasent  stumped  like  he  thaught  I  was 
Fer  Ime  goin  to  invent  a  kind  that  does 
(85) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

\^s  — . — ---  


And  I  dont  think  errythmeticks  any  good 
Per  I  cant  figger  and  never  could 
So  when  Ime  a  man  you  bet  lie  look 
At  the  tables  and  ansers  in  the  book 
And  Gography  too  I  think  is  snide 
Fer  if  I  travel  He  git  a  gide 
And  I  bet  I  git  through  without  a  hitch 
Your  lowing  skoller 

WILIE  N  RICH. 


III. 


DEER  TEECHER 
Fother  he  says  I  ot 

To  studdy  the  things  that  was  formly  taut 
When  he  was  litel     He  says  to  kno 
The  upproxymit  lenth  of  a  June-Bugs  toe 
Is  all  well  enouf  but  spelins  better 
And  to  kno  how  to  write  a  bisniz  letter. 
But  you  said  Gorge  Washintons  letters  tell 
That  he  didn't  know  very  good  to  spel 

Pa  keeps  a  naggin  at  me  to  try 
To  umprove  my  ritin     He  says  that  I 
Cant  rite  no  better  than  a  hen  can  crow, 
But  why  should  I  studdy  ritin  so 
When  Horse  Greely,  he  couldent  rite 
You  said  his  ritin  was  such  a  site 
(86) 


His  note  lookt  like  a  dunn  to  a  credditor 
And  that  was  the  reason  he  was  a  edditor 

I  told  pa  that  and  I  said  you  said 

Lincoln  might  of  been  bigger  around  the  head 

If  hed  had  more  chance  to  go  to  scool 

And  studdy  accordin  to  moddern  rule 

Pa  give  his  sholders  a  coupple  of  shrugs 

I  suppose  he  knu  a  lot  about  bugs 

He  says     Pa  says  so  many  things  which 

There  aint  no  sens  in 

WILIE  N  RICH 


IV. 


DEER  TEECHER 
Fother  said  there's  no  doubt 
Ide  learned  all  there  was  to  kno  about 
Common  werms  and  things  but  he  rather  thot 
Backteary  might  learn  me  qite  a  lot 
So  please  wont  you  learn  us  all  about  jerms 
Mikekrobes  and  bassilly  and  other  werms, 
So  we  can  be  bizzily  kept  emploid 
And  scool  life  wont  seem  a  acking  voyd 

Bassilly  is  what  gits  in  your  lungs 
And  they  aint  got  stummichs  or  teeth  or  tungs 
But  they  eat  till  your  lungs  is  gone  and  so 
You  aint  got  enny  breth  left  to  blow. 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE 


Trickinny  gits  into  sossidge  meet 
And  then  into  yours    And  they  eat  and  eat 
Till  your  mussels  is  all  so  et  and  sore 
You  cant  even  chin  yourself  no  more 

I  love  the  studdy  of  bugs  and  werms 
But  I  hope  youl  learn  us  more  about  jerms 
Fer  they  ain't  no  use  that  I  can  see 
Except  to  be  studdied  by  skollers  like  me 
They  swim  in  the  milk  and  give  you  things 
They  fly  in  the  air  without  no  wings 
They  lite  on  your  skin  and  you  git  the  itch 
Your  lowing  skoller 

WILIE  N  RICH. 


V. 


DEER  TEECHER 
I  now  take  up  my  pen 
To  rite  you  Ime  in  trubble  agen 
I  thaut  I  had  lernd  all  there  was  to  kno 
Of  werms  but  Ime  scared  it  aint  qite  so. 
Last  nite  pa  was  teasin  and  after  while 
He  says  with  a  sort  of  a  grin  and  smile 
Wilie  he  says,  and  when  I  says  What 
Says  he  How  many  feet  has  a  tape-werm  got 

Deer  teecher  think  how  I  felt  fer  O 
How  coud  I  tell  him  I  diddent  kno 
(88) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


At  first  I  thaut  that  likely  enougf 

Pa  dident  kno  neether  so  I  tride  bluff 

And  I  says  Why  he  aint  got  none  at  all 

He  rolls  hisself  up  into  a  ball 

Like  you  by  in  the  stoar — of  tape  you  kno 

And  pa,  he  says  Deer  me    Is  that  so 

A  tape-werm  I  says  don't  do  nothin  but  eat 
And  so  he  groes  stummicks  instead  of  feet 
A  angle-werm  eats  til  his  sides  is  sore 
And  stretches  hisself  and  eats  some  more 
And  so  does  a  tape-werm    And  pa  says  Say 
I  saw  a  collection  of  them  today 
And  as  near  as  Ime  abbel  to  juddg  they  run 
From  a  twenty  foot  tape-werm  down  to  one 

Teecher  I  was  stuck    But  I  says  Why  pop 
A  one  foot  tape-werm  could  only  hop 
And  with  twenty  feet  hed  be  off  his  feed 
Fer  imaginin  he  was  a  centypeed 
But  teecher  I  said  it  withowt  no  hart 
Fer  reelly  it  give  me  an  awful  start 
To  find  I  was  ignerrent  on  a  werm 
So  please  let  us  studdy  on  tapes  next  term 
Fer  things  has  come  to  a  pritty  pitch 
When  I  dont  kno  werms        Yours 

WILIE  N  RICH. 


(89) 


A  BESETTING  SIN. 
(As  Confessed  by  a  Youthful  Penitent.) 

I   SHAN'T  be  bad  no  more,  I  shan't.     I'm  goan  to 
be  reel  good; 
I  heard  a  preacher-man  an'  he   said  ever*body 

could, 

Ef  they  jus'  kep'  a-tryin'  and  a-tryin',  day  b'  day, 
An*    ef    they    didn't    try    they'd    go — some    place    I 

mustn't  say, 

Er  mother  says  I  mustn't,  'nd  so,  o'  course,  I  shan't; 
Don't  see  why  preachers  says  it,  ef  another  feller 

can't ! 
But  I'm  a  goan  to  be  reel  good.     I  shan't  pull  pussy's 

tail, 

Ner  tie  our  nice,  old  Nodie  to  a  nasty,  old  tin  pail, 
Like  I  did  once  when  Tommy  Johnson  said  I  didn't 

dast: 

I'd  like  to  fix  that  feller,  but  my  fightin1  days  is  past! 
1  shan't  git  mad  when  baby  sucks  the  paint  off  all 

my  blocks, 
Ner  spend  the  cent  pa  gives  me  fcr  the  missionary 

box. 
I'm  goan  to  be  a  martire,  an'  I  shan't  be  bad  one 

speck; 
Ain't  even  goan  to  cry  when  mother  makes  me  wash 

my  neck. 


(90) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


Most  martire  fellers  wasn't  much.   Why,  any  circus 

man'll 
Cuff  them  lions   'round  an'  do  it  just  as  slick  as 

Dan'l. 
Aunt  Becky  thinks  it's  somethin'  great  to  live  in 

sacks  'nd  ashes. 
/  think  that's  fun!   An'  hair-cloth  shirts!   I  bet  they 

got  the  rashes 
'Nd  wear  them  shirts  to  scratch  'em!  Of  course  that 

Jony  feller 
Inside  that  big,  old  whale,  all  dark  like  down-in- 

our-cellar, 
He  had  a  heap  o'  spunk,   he   had;  but  I  tol*  Aunty 

Beck 
He  didn't  allus  have  to  go  an'  wash  his  dog-gone 

neck. 


That's  goan  to  be  the  worstest  thing,  an*  orful  hard, 

I  know, 

But  I'm  dissolved  to  do  it!  ef  I  do  hate  it  so. 
It's  funny  hatey  things  is  good,  but  I  suppose  it's 

true, 
An'  things  you  like  is  mostly  things  you  hadn't  ought 

to  do. 
An'  water's  cold,  er  ef  it's  hot,  it's  het  so  much  it's 

scaldy; 
An*  'sides,  it  wets  yer  collar  all  around  yer  Garry- 

baldy, 


(90 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


An*  runs  all  down  yer  back,  an*  then  the  soap  gits  in 
yer  eyes, 

Because  the  towel  ain't  where  it  was — an'  then  some 
times  I  cries. 

But  I  shan't  cry  no  more,  though  p'r'aps  I'll  want  to, 
I  expec', 

But  when  I'm  growed,  I  ain't  a  goan  to  ne'ber  wash 
my  neck! 

But  now  I'm  goan  to  do  it,  till  I'm  old  enough,  at 

last, 
To  know  what  things  I  dassen't  do,  an*  other  things 

I  dast. 

An'  ef  I  have  a  little  boy,  as  course  I  will,  I  'spec', 
I  bet  you  forty  dollars  that  I'll  make  him    wash  bis 

neck! 


(92) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


"ON  THE  JUDGMUNT  DAY." 

THAT  Jim  Young's  a  mean  old  thing, 
What  you  think  he  done? 
He  knocked  my  alley  out  the  ring 
'N'  grabbed  it  up  'n'  run. 
An'  it  wasn't  keepses,  like  he  says  it  was; 
'Cause  keeps  is  wicked  gamblin';  knows  it,  too,  he 

does. 

Why'd  he  run  away  for,  if  he  thought  tuz  fair? 
He's  a  mean,  old  cheater,  now!  but  I  don't  care. 
He'll  git  ketched  up  sometime  where  he  can't  run 

way; 
An'  he'll  git  a  lickin'  on  the  Judgmunt  Day. 

"What  you  laughin'  at?    It's  so. 

If  you're  bad  er  naughty! 

Guess  my  mother  ought  to  know 

'N'  she  tol'  me  'n'  Tottie 

Not  to  tell  no  stories,  ner  to  say  bad  things, 

Ner  hook  the  groc'ry  apples,  ner  to  pull  flies'  wings, 

Ner  b'unpolite  to  comp'ny,  ner  walk  the  railroad  ties, 

Ner  to  fight— espechly  fellers  not  yer  size — 

Ner  never  go  a-swimmin,"  frss  she  says  we  may 

Er  we'd  git  a  lickin'  on  the  Judgmunt  Day. 

"Joey  Smith,  he's  orful  bad. 
He's  much  badder'n  me. 
'Cause  he's  a  stealerl  Oncet  he  had 
Two  birdnests  from  our  tree, 
(93) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


An*  the  little  'cheepses' — course  they  couldn't  fly — 

Jus'  was  lef  there,  nakid,  on  the  groun'  to  die. 

I  was  jus"  as  mad  as  ever  I  could  be. 

I'd  a  killed  that  feller!  but  he's  bigger'n  me. 

I  don't  care.     He'll  ketch  it.     'N'  so'll  Grace  'n'  Nell, 

Cause  they  tol'  I  whispered,  'n'  they  oughtent  tell. 

'N'  I  was  kap'  at  recess,  so's  I  couldn't  play; 

But  teacher'll  git  a  lickin'  on  the  Judgmunt  Day. 

"If  I'm  good  as  sugar,  say! 

Wun't  I  have  the  fun 

Watchin'  other  chaps  that  day 

When  the  lickin's  done? 

Gee!   I'll  do  it.   I'll  try  to  allus  'use  the  mat,' 

Keep  the  ten  commandments,  never  plague  the  cat, 

Take    good    care    of    Tottie,    not    play    games    too 

rough — 

Be  like  grannie  tells  me,  'n'  if  that  ain't  good  'nough, 
I'll  jus'  walk  up,  yessir,  up  to  God  'n'  say 
'I'm  here  to  take  my  lickin' '  on  the  Judgmunt  Day." 


(94) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


THE   TICK-TACK   ON   THE   WINDOW. 

WAS  it  many  years  ago,  Will,  that  we  boys 
kept  Hallowe'en? 
I  close  my  eyes  a  moment  and  there's  not  a 

day  between. 
It  seems  as  if  Time  grevr  so  deft,  his  hour-glass 

faster  whirled 
Every  year  we  tramp  together  towards  the  ending  of 

the  world. 
Do  you  remember  how  we  bobbed  for  nickels  in  a 

tub 
And  how  I  got  the  most  because  my  nose  was  such 

a  snub? 
You  remember  those  big  apples  that  we  Lung  up  on 

a  string 

And  tried  to  take  a  bite  of  during  their  elusive  swing? 
But  while  the  fun  indoors  was  good,  it  didn't  make  a 

mark 
'Longside  the  wild  excitement  in  the  eerie,  queery 

dark, 
When  we  used  to  hang  a  tick-tack  on  the  window. 

Such  pranks  we  played!  The  staidest  gate  would 
wander  from  his  own 

And  hang  himself  on  some  old  tree  without  a  mo 
tive  known. 


(95) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT, 


A  string  across  the  sidewalk  laid  a  big  policeman 

flat, 
And  another  in  the  air  caught  Uncle  Ezek's  new  plug 

hat. 
A   dozen   door  bells   rang  at   once,   a   dozen   heads 

popped  out, 
But  nothing  but  a  smothered  laugh  was  lingering 

about. 

A  turnip  was  a  treasure  and  a  cabbage  stump  a  prize, 
Which  held  a  weird  significance  in  owlish,   urchin 

eyes, 
While  a  pumpkin  and  a  candle  were  a  most  unholy 

revel, 
Till  we  felt  a  sweet  assurance  that  our  ally  was  the 

devil, 
And  then  we  hung  a  tick-tack  on  the  window. 

Some   desperate   hero   clambered   up   the   roof   and 

slowly  crept 
Beneath  the  bedroom  window  where  the  fearsome 

"old  folks"  slept. 
He  did  the  deed  and  back  he  came  from  dangers 

worse  than  death, 
While  we  unleashed  our  lungs  again  and  welcomed 

back  a  breath. 
O,  the  quivery,  shivery  ecstasy,  as,  snuggling  in  the 

grass, 
We  pulled  the  string  and  heard  the  sound  against 

the  window  glass! 


(96) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


The  quaint,  delicious  horror  that  came  slipping  down 
the  string 

We  knew  was  but  a  shadow  of  the  monstrous  vam 
pire  thing 

Which  clicked  behind  the  old  folks'  ears  and  flicked 
before  their  eyes, 

As  they  credited  their  tortures  unto  every  fiend  that 

flies, 
Except  that  little  tick-tack  on  the  window. 

Ha,  ha!  I'd  like  to  slip  behind  a  certain  judge  1  know 
In  some  grave   lis  sub  judice,    with  talk  of    quid  pro 

quo, 
And  cry,  "You  rascal!  What  d'ye  mean  by  sliding 

down  that  roof 
And  sousing  in  that  rain  barrel?  Don't  deny  it.    I've 

the  proof, 
The  minister  will  bear  me  out.    He  pulled  the  rain 

barrel  down, 
Or  you'd  be   swallowing  wigglers  yet,  unless  you 

chanced  to  drown!" 
Ho,  ho!  those  pranks  of  Hallowe'en.    I  almost  think, 

you  know, 

If  the  devil  has  a  family  in  the  engine-room  below, 
God  shuts  his  eyes  on  Hallowe'en  and  gives  the  imps 

free  scope 
To  hurl  a  cabbage  stump  against  the  golden  gates  of 

Hope, 
And  hang  a  tick-tack  right  on  Heaven's  windowl 

(97) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


A  CHRISTMAS  KID. 

j  "n  IT  EMBER  once,  long  time  ago,  'most  a  month, 
J.VL        I  guess, 

Gram   says,   "Would  you   want   more  pie?" 

en  course  I  tol'  her,  "Yes," 
En  pa  says,  "Grammaw,  don't  you  know  the  chil' 

has  had  two  slices, 

'Sides  the  fruit  en  puddin*  en  a  help  or  two  of  ices?" 
So  I  didn't  git  no  more,  en  then  I  wisht,  I  did, 
That  I  could  be  a  man  en  eat,  instead  of  just  a  kid. 

'Member  once  —  suppose  it  must  of  been  the  Fourth 

July- 

Pa  was  shootin'  rockers  off,  clean  up  to  the  sky, 
'N'  I  says,  "Lemme  shoot  'em,  pa,"  en  ma,  she  gasps 

her  breath, 
En  says,  "You  mustn't  let  the  child!  he'll  burn  hisself 

to  death!" 
En  pa  says,  "Too  bad,  son,  but  we  must  walk  the 

way  we're  bid!" 
En  then  I  wisht  I  was  a  man,  'stead  of  just  a  kid. 

'Member  once  a  great,  big  feller  took  away  my  sled, 
Hit  me  right  here,  on  the  nose,  en  it  bled  'n'  bled. 
He  was  'most  the  biggest  boy,  I  bet,  you  ever  see; 
Reglar  giunt,  he  was,  twict  again  as  big  as  me, 
En  ever'  time  he  passed  our  house,  I  run  away  'n' 

hid 

En  wisht  7  was  a  giunt,  too,  instead  of  just  a  kid. 
(98) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


'Member  lots  o'  times  I  wisht  'at  I  could  be  growed 

up 
En  drink  real  tea  fer  supper  out  o*  pa's  big  mus 

tache  cup, 

En  have  a  nickel  fer  my  own  self  ever'  single  day, 
With  no  one  sayin',  "Course  it's  yours,  but  lemme 

put  it  'way." 

En  no  one  ask  in'  where  I  am  en  what  it  was  I  did, 
But  Chris'mas  time  I'm  glad  I  ain't  a  man,  but  just  a 

kid. 

'Member  last  year's  Chris'mas,  how  old  Santy  come 

*n*  brought 

Such  a  stack  I  couldn't  tell  half  the  things  I  got. 
A  railroad,  en  a  jumping  frog,  a  wagon  en  a  goat, 
En  ma,  she  only  got  a  di-mon*  brooch  'n*  sealskin 

coat. 
O,  yes,  I  got  some  club  skates,  too,  en  went  right 

out  'n'  slid 
En  was  so  glad  I  wasn't  growed,  but  only  just  a  kid. 

'Member  once,  one  Chris'mas,  pa,  he  fetched  some 

things  fer  ma, 
En  ma  had  went  down  town  en  bought  some  other 

things  fer  pa. 
En  they  give   'em  to  each  other,   en  I  was  so  sorry, 

'cause 
It  showed  that  they  was  bad  en  dassent  have  no 

Santy  Glaus! 


(99) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


It  almost  makes  me  cry  sometimes  a-wonderin'  what 

they  did, 
En  ain't  I  glad  I  ain't  growed  up,  but  only  just  a 

kid! 


(ioo) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE 


MONDAY  IN  SEPTEMBER. 

(Which  is  the  theme  of  a  strictly  confidential  letter 

to  Mr.  Peter  Perkins  from  his  friend,  Mr. 

Buck  Brown.) 

DERE  PETE 
I  thought  I'd  write  to  you  and  say  how  bad 

I  feel, 

Most  like  I  didn't  never  want  to  eat  another  meal. 
Septembres  come,  and  I  don't  need  to  tell  you  why 

bicause 

I  know  you  wisht  that  you  was  dead  or  else  that 
Teacher  was. 

I  wisht  thered  come  a  sighclone  that  would  blow  the 

schoolhouse  down, 
I  wisht  the  Indiuns  would  come  and  try  to  scalp  the 

town, 
I  wisht  thered  be  a  war  and  I  could  go  and  fite  the 

Terk 
I  wisht  that  I  was  Pa  without  a  thing  to  do  but 

werk. 


(101) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


Course  I  can't  do  much   reel  work  yet,  but  I  could 

ring  the  buz 
Thats  at  his  desk  and  boss  the  clurks  as  easy  as  he 

does. 
And  if   I   can't    rite   letters   good,   I'm   sure   that   I 

could  tell 
A  girl  just  what  I  wanted  wrote,  if  she  knew  how  to 

spel. 
I  wisht  Septembre  was  a  month  that  dident  have  no 

Mundys, 
I   wisht  there  was   more   Saterdys   or   maybe   even 

Sundys. 

I  wisht  a  Annerkist  would  throw  a  bom  at  Teachers 

face 
And  when  she  dodged  Id  ketch  it  like  I  do  at  second 

base 

And  fire  it  back  at  him  as  if  he  was  a  playin  ferst 
And  hit  him  plum  between  the  eyes  the  second  that 

it  berst 
And  then  the  Teacherd  cry  and  say  "you  nobble, 

nobble  yuth. 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


Youv  saved  my  life  and  it  is  yourn  forever  and  fer- 

sooth," 
Just  like  the  girl  does  on  the  stage  and  then  I'd 

swaller  hard 
And  say  "twas  but  my  dooty  and  I  scorn  to  take 

reward, 
But  lest  my  presents  here  should  make  my  perpose 

grow  inferm, 
111  bid  you  now  a  fond  ado  and  wont  come  back 

this  term." 

I  bet  a  quatter  thogh  no  Annerkist  wont  bring  me  no 

such  luck, 
So  hope  this  finds  you  feelin  just  as  well  as 

Your  frend  BUCK. 


"SANTY'S  LITTLE  BOY." 

IF  I  was  Santy's  little  boy,  I'd  dress 
Up  in  a  polar-bear-skin  suit,  I  guess; 
En  then  I'd  have  a  grea',  big  sled  en  go 
Sleigh-ridin*  on  a  hill  of  sugar-snow, 
En  have  a  snow-ball  fight  wif  pop-corn  balls, 
En  have  a  reindeer  horse  like  those  'at  hauls 
The  Santy-sleigh,  en  have  him  painted  red, 
So's  he'd  look  pretty,  en  jus'  like  my  sled. 

If  I  was  Santy's  little  boy,  he'd  fix 

A  house  fer  me,  made  out  of  choc'late  bricks 

Wif  ice-cream  plaster!     En  I'd  have  him  make 

The  floors  of  apple-pie  en  angel-cake; 

En  then  a  fountain  squirtin'  lemonade 

En  big  enough  to  get  into  en  wade; 

En  raisin-trees  out-doors,  wif  fences  'round 

Made  out  of  candy-canes  stuck  in  the  ground. 

If  I  was  Santy's  little  boy,  I  bet 
I'd  have  a  Chrismas  ever'  day,  en  get 
Jus'  lots  of  presents.     En  he'd  plant  a  tree 
En  ast  my  papa  in,  so's  he  could  see 
Me  light  it  up,  en  then  my  mama — ooh! 
I  wouldn't  have  her,  then,  ner  papa,  too! 
I  guess — I  guess  I  don't  fink  I'd  enjoy 
A  bein'  Santy  Claus's  little  boy. 


(104) 


In  Remembrance. 


THE  LITTLE  BOY  WHO  LEFT  US. 

T. 

THE  little  lonely  birth  of  him!     He  made 
His  way  to  Earth  alone  and  none  could  aid 
Him  with  a  word  of  cheer, 
Could  reach  his  little  unattuned  ear 
To  tell  the  waiting  welcome,  the  soft  breast 
Whereon  his  drooping  little  head  should  rest, 
His  to  command  by  noon,  or  night, 
In  dark  or  light; 
The  life-milk  and  the  bliss 

Of  gaining  it  through  the  long,  deep-drawn  kiss, 
The  never-tiring  arms,  the  cuddling  croon, 
How  could  he  know  that  all  this  boon 
And  benison  were  his,  when  he  should  win 
The  harbor-passage  in, 
Should  reach  the  port  of  Earth 
Through  that  tempestuous  voyage  men  call  birth? 


II. 


The  little  lonely  life  of  him!    He  dwelt 
Cored  in  our  hearts,  yet  only  partly  felt 
The  love  which  folded  him.    How  could  we  pour 
The  rapturous  lore 

(107) 


r^ — 

CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


Of  love  with  which  we  bubbled  to  the  brim, 

So  it  might  also  flood  the  heart  of  him? 

Our  syllables  and  their  strange  ways 

Came  in  half-foreign  phrase 

To  little,  unaccustomed  ears,  whfte  his  wee  words 

Fluttered  like  baby  birds, 

Untaught  of  flight. 

Could  he  know,  quite, 

The  meaning  of  the  cuddling  care?  And  did  we  reach 

Without  the  definite  harmonies  of  speech 

The  surest,  sweetest  tone 

To  chord  his  little  being  with  our  own? 


III. 


The  little  lonely  death  of  him!    True,  at  the  best 
All  men  must  sup  alone  with  the  last  guest. 
The  sweet  and  sun-lit  living  room 
Is  ever  built  beside  the  quiet  tomb. 
Between  them  is  a  passage,  not  so  wide 
That  ever  two  may  tread  it  side  by  side. 
Hard,  hard!  yet,  groping  down  the  narrow  hall, 
The  journeying  one  may  hear  our  saddened  call, 
Our  cheering,  sympathizing  cries, 
Or  the  shared  sorrow  of  the  last  goodbyes. 
But  he,  the  little,  wee  one,  could  he  know 
Our  hearts  were  cloven  with  the  woe? 

(108) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT 


The  love  which  gilds  the  dark  distress, 
The  blossom  in  the  wilderness, 
The  one  sweet  in  the  bitterness, 
The  human  murmur  of  the  moan, 
The  music  in  the  dirge  men  call  a  groan, 
He  could  not  know.    Alone!  alone! 


IV. 


And  is  he  lonely  still?    The  dazed  mind  gropes 

Amid  a  labyrinth  of  doubts  and  hopes. 

The  firmest  founded  faith 

Melts  to  a  misty  wraith 

Upraising,  like  a  wild  bird's  cry, 

The  fierce  demand  of  "Why?" 

Nay,  mock  me  not  by  saying  He  who  gave 

Has  cradled  the  wee  body  in  the  grave. 

God  were  not  good  to  grant  such  Gift  and  then, 

Capricious,  filch  it  back  again. 

Life  is  for  living.    Should  the  lamp  be  torched 

To  break  it  ere  the  wick  be  scarcely  scorched? 

Lonely?    Ah,  only  half  I  hope  that  he  is  not, 

Fearing  that  we  who  loved  and  love  him  are  forgot. 

Selfish,  I  own,  but  Love's  delicious  wine 

Breathes  ever  forth  the  sweet  bouquet  of  "Mine!" 

Lonely?    How  were  he  else?    Does  not  the  baby 

flower 
Droop  in  its  tender  hour, 

(109) 


Transplanted?     Thrives  it  in  stranger-earth 
As  in  the  native  soil  which  gave  it  birth? 
Lonely?     But  in  the  sea  of  Loneliness, 
The  great  sea  where  the  tide  of  death's  distress 
Rises  and  ebbs  and  rises  till  the  press 
Floods  our  own  nostrils  with  its  bitterness, 
In  that  sea  is  a  Beacon  and  its  flame 
Kindles  the  heart  of  man  today  the  same 
As  in  the  uncounted  centuries  which  are  fled;— 
Faith  of  Reunion  with  the  Loved  and  Dead. 


(no) 


( 

CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 

:T> O^ 

EARTH-OLD. 

THE  sound  of  a  woman  crying 
The  cry  of  an  earth-old  pain; 
Her  brow  is  gnarled  and  knotted  tight, 
Her  cheeks  are  drawn  and  her  lips  are  white, 
But  she  knows  her  hour  is  buying 
(With  a  price  of  no  man's  gain) 
The  right  of  a  little  breath  to  be, 
Of  a  tongue  to  taste,  of  eyes  to  see. 

And  a  new  little  life  is  lying 
And  a  new  little  voice  set  free. 

The  sound  of  a  woman  weeping 

The  wail  of  an  earth-old  woe; 

Will  skies  never  more  shine  blue  and  bright? 

Will  hearts  never  more  beat  high  and  light 

As  if  no  babe  were  keeping 

From  those  who  loved  him  so? 

O,  the  pain  of  birth  brings  a  rich  reward, 

But  the  pain  of  death — how  hard,  how  hard! 

Will  he  never  more  cease  from  sleeping 
Under  rain  and  sun  and  snow? 


(in) 


OUR  LITTLE  OWN  BOY. 

ALL  the  tune  the  boy  could  play 
Was  'Over  the  hills  and  far  away.'  ** 
Or  so  we  sang  to  our  little  own  boy, 
As  he  bubbled  and  babbled  his  birdling  joy, 
Perched  on  the  end  of  his  grandma's  knee, 
(For  wonderful  cronies  were  he  and  she,) 
And  never  had  aria,  mass  or  glee 
So  dulcet  a  charm  for  him — or  me! 
So  dulcet  a  charm?   No,  not  one  half, 
As  he  chorused  in  with  his  little  bird  laugh; 
It  tickled  him  so  that  a  boy  could  play 
Just  "Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

Where  is  our  little  own  boy  to-day? 

Is  he  over  the  hills  and  far  away? 

Over  the  hills?    Were  it  only  true! 

Hills  may  be  crossed  or  tunnelled  through. 

Hills  may  be  razed  and  their  solid  rock 

Be  battered  down  by  the  earthquake  shock. 

But  what  of  the  hills  we  cannot  see 

between   my  little  own  boy  and  me? 

Which  divide   the  life  we  know  so  little 

From  the  life  of  which  we  know  not  one  tittle, 

That  life,  the  birth  into  which  is  death, 

And  being  is  nothing  of  blood,  or  breath. 

So  much  we  at  least  may  hope  and  dream. 

We  may  even  believe,  or  so  we  deem, 

(iia) 


anb  Jfar 

r" 


Till  our  little  own  boy  has  gene  to  play 
"Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

Yet  not  in  despair  do  I  sing  to-day 
Of  "over  the  hills  and  far  away." 
The  cry  of  the  flesh  demands  the  whole, 
The  wee,  warm  body  around  the  soul, 
But  some  are  born  to  live  on  and  on, 
When  the  zest  of  the  wine  of  life  is  gone, 
And  some  but  come  for  the  briefest  day, 
Cry  out  at  living  and  go  their  way. 
The  century's  span  or  the  flash  of  an  eye 
Are  one.    When  we  come  to  die,  we  die. 
And  which  is  the  better?  Who  can  say? 
Not  you,  nor  I,  nor  any  who  stay 
This  side  of  the  hills — and  far  away. 


("3) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE  TOT. 


UNSAID. 

HIS  mother  was  combing  her  sombre  hair 
Near  the  baby's  bed  in  the  corner  there, 
Which  it  seemed  to  us  that  we  could  not 

spare 

When  his  little  life  left  us.    So  we  kept 
The  wee,  white  nest  where  he  always  slept, 
Where  the  little  one  always  slept. 

In  the  mesh  of  her  hair  the  smooth  comb  tripped, 
And  clattering  down  to  the  floor  it  slipped; 
For  the  flash  of  a  second  we  forgot, 
And,  startling,  turned  to  the  little  cot 
To  see — but  the  baby  heard  it  not, 
The  baby  heard  it  not. 

Deep  in  the  eyes  of  the  other,  each 
Sounded  the  sorrow  too  deep  for  speech; 
Into  each  other's  hearts  we  read; 
Down  to  my  shoulder  I  drew  her  head 
And  left  the  pitiful  words  unsaid, 
The  pitiful  words  unsaid. 


("4) 


CHRONICLES  OF  THE  LITTLE 


AT  NIGHT. 

SOMETIMES  when  Darkness  spread  for  me  her 
robe  of  rest, 

And  Silence  guarded  by, 

The  Night-bird,  Sleep,  would  startle  from  her  nest. 
Stirred  by  the  baby's  cry. 

When  night  is  deepest  now,  again  and  yet  again 

I  lie  with  wide  eyes  wet: 
It  was  his  little  cry  which  waked  me  then: 

His  silence  wakes  me  yet. 


(US) 


INDEX. 

PAGE 

An  Arbiter  of  Titles   50 

At  Night 115 

At  the  Concert   60 

Babykin-Boykin-Boo    31 

Baby  on  the  Floor,  The   27 

Bawl-in-the-Face    23 

Besetting  Sin,  A    90 

Center  of  the  Universe,  The 53 

Childhood  of   Spring,   The    57 

Christmas    Kid,   A    98 

Climbers,  The   55 

Cradlers,  The n 

Cradle  Song  20 

Creepers,   The    25 

Cruise  of  the   Good  Ship  Little  Tot,  The    39 

Cruisers,   The    37 

Earth-Old   in 

Face  in  the  Window,  The  44 

Grand  Lama,  Jr.,  The 29 

Hen,  The    68 

If  I  Didn't  Forget  How  Old  I  Was  76 

Indirect    Discourse    64 

In  Remembrance   105 

Intruder,  The    14 

Janus,  Jr 33 

Leopold    78 

("7) 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

Linguists,  The  72 

Little  Boy  Who  Left  Us,  The    107 

Marvel,    The    16 

Monday  in  September 101 

Moo-Cow-Moo,  The    66 

Mrs.  Santa  Claus  62 

No  Shootin'  Off  this  Year    80 

On  the  Judgment  Day  93 

Opulence    17 

Our   Little   Own   Boy    112 

Papa-Dolly,   The    74 

Santy's  Little  Boy  104 

Shave  Store,  The  75 

Song  of  the  Socks  and  Shoes,  The   35 

Spring-Cleaning  Baby,  The   48 

Superlative,  The   18 

Talk  of  the  Two- Year  Old,  The  41 

Tax  List,  The   46 

Throwing  the  Shoe  13 

Thurru'  Rest,  A   8a 

Tick-Tack  of  the  Window,  The  95 

Two  Little  Serving-Men  58 

Under  Orders    21 

Unsaid    114 

When  Folks  Come  T'our  House   70 

Willie's  Letters  to  His  Teacher    84 


(118) 


HERE  ENDS  "CHRONICLES  OF  THE 
LITTLE  TOT"  BY  EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE: 
PRINTED  BY  THE  DODGE  PUBLISHING 
COMPANY  IN  THE  CITY  OF  NEW  YORK. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  I  look  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-40m-7,'5G(C79084)444 


ES_    Cooke   -. 

35>05>       Chronicles  of  the 
little  tot_ 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAC 


A     000919745 


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PS 
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